I was crusing along, rereading this book which I recall considering one of his best, way back when, thinking, "yeah this is Kerouac, fast paced, brilliant, hard to stay with at times", and then, near a quarter into the story he launches into a page or so about the Native Americans, in relation to his lover, Mardou, and it stopped me in my tracks. Tears came to my eyes and I had to put the book down, it came so sudden - out of the blue - and cut so deep to the core. I don't recall him ever commenting on this subject, and this was the '50s, before the hippies took up their cause. All it took was a few of his famous long sentences to hit the essence of the Indian catastrophy in a way only a truly great writer can. Man, it moved me! Go check it.